The Dead of Ashwood series. Book 1: Ghost of Ashwood Hollow

Stories

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

He left Ashwood Hollow eight years ago, broken and unwanted. Now the ghosts have dragged Caleb Walker home. The spirits whisper of a killer who will strike again—and the town’s only hope lies with the man they swore to forget.

Warning short story. Eight years ago, Caleb Walker swore he’d never set foot in Ashwood Hollow again. Branded an outcast for claiming he could see ghosts, he left behind a broken family, a ruined reputation, and a brother who wanted nothing to do with him.

But the dead don’t care about promises.

When the ghost of a murdered girl returns to haunt him, Caleb is pulled back to the small southern town he once called home. The whispers of the dead warn him that a killer is still at large—one who has already taken lives and is ready to strike again.

Facing hostility from townsfolk and icy silence from his younger brother, now a detective, Caleb is forced to rely on the only ally he has: his brother’s new partner, a newcomer to Ashwood Hollow who believes in the ghosts no one else dares to acknowledge.

Together, with the restless spirits as their guides, Caleb must confront his past, rebuild fragile trust, and expose a murderer hiding in plain sight—before the next victim is claimed.

Complete Chapters 19

Rating 4.9 ( 7 reviews ) Age Rating 16+

{"language":"en","storyId":1562813,"genres":[{"name":"Mystery","path":"/genres/mystery"},{"name":"Fantasy","path":"/genres/fantasy"}],"authorName":"Jessica A. Nolan","authorPath":"/JessicaANolan","status":"complete","lastUpdatedAt":1787786953,"chaptersCount":19,"rating":4.857142857142857,"reviewsCount":7,"ageRating":"16+"}

1. Caleb

I never planned on coming back to Ashwood Hollow . Not after the way I left. Not after eight years of pretending the ghosts didn’t exist, or at least that they couldn’t find me once I’d put a few hundred miles and a couple of state lines between us. I’d spent nearly a decade chasing the horizon, putting down roots in places that were too bright, too loud, and too full of living people to be bothered by the dead. I’d taken jobs that demanded all my focus—oil rigs, deep-sea fishing trawlers, anything with a roaring engine and a view of the open water. A world where a dead man in overalls couldn’t just shamble up and ruin your breakfast.

But sometimes life—or death—doesn’t bother to ask what you planned. It just shoves you where it wants, ready or not. It’s like when you’re driving down a long, straight road, and a sudden, violent storm blows up out of nowhere. You don’t pull over and argue with the sky; you just grip the wheel and let it push you. That’s what Ashwood Hollow felt like: a sudden, unwelcome squall that had found me three states away and demanded my attendance.

I took the exit off the I-22 and the asphalt immediately gave way to the familiar, cracking concrete of the state highway. The air immediately changed, heavy and wet, draped over everything like a cheap wool blanket. It wasn’t the heat that got to you; it was the humidity , thick enough to chew on, smelling like damp earth and summer rain that never quite evaporated.

The town hadn’t changed much, which was both a comfort and a curse.

The same faded gas station with the busted sign sat on the edge of the county line, a monument to rural entropy. The “E” in FOSTER’S FUEL & AUTO was still a flickering void, making the whole place read like a desperate plea for a good night’s sleep. I saw the familiar, dented blue pickup parked by the single, lonely pump, and I half-expected to see my Uncle Roy, my mother’s younger brother, asleep on a lawn chair out front, a fly-swatter resting on his chest and a half-full bottle of sweet tea sweating on the cracked pavement beside him. He wouldn’t be sleeping, though. Not with everything that was happening. But the expectation, the muscle memory of the town, was still there, pulling me back to a version of myself I’d successfully murdered years ago.

A block past the station was the First Baptist Church , its brick façade painted a blinding, sanctimonious white. The little black sign out front with its changeable white letters was still putting on a weekly show of folksy wisdom. This week’s attempt at humor was painted in crooked, blocky letters: GOD’S LOVE IS LIKE GRITS—IT STICKS WITH YOU. I almost smiled, a cynical, humorless twitch of my lips. Everything in Ashwood Hollow stuck with you, whether you wanted it to or not. The guilt, the grief, the people, the pine needles—and yes, the dead.

And then there was the smell—a classic Southern trinity. Pine and sweet, sickly honeysuckle were fighting for dominance over the sharper tang of exhaust fumes and the river’s dark, fishy mud. Ashwood Hollow was frozen in time, preserved under a thick coat of Southern dust and old secrets. The only difference was me, a man who’d spent eight years becoming a stranger to his own reflection.

I turned my beat-up, dark-grey pickup down Main Street , the tires crunching on loose gravel left over from a recent downpour. The street was lined with brick storefronts that looked like they’d fought too many wars with the weather, and whitewashed porches that sagged under the slow, heavy rotation of ancient ceiling fans. A few spots had clearly been spruced up , given a new coat of paint and some potted ferns, probably by some hopeful, civic-minded soul. But the majority of the buildings leaned into their age, resigned, their windows dark and dusty like sleeping eyes.

I parked outside the diner, the one that had served up more than just hash browns and coffee over the years. It was called The Daily Grind , and its pink neon sign still hummed a low, dying note, buzzing like a cicada on its last legs. The light flickered, casting a sickly, rosy glow on the pavement. When I was a kid, that light had been my compass: late nights after football games, a beacon for heartbreak and hangovers, a place to confess sins or just sit and watch the rain fall. Coming back now, it felt less like nostalgia and more like walking willingly into a well-laid trap.

I killed the engine. The resulting silence was immediate and oppressive. I kept my hands on the wheel, my eyes on the grimy windshield, gathering the last shreds of my composure. I didn’t have to check the rearview mirror. I knew. The ghosts noticed me before the people did. They always did. It was like I had a giant, invisible magnet for unresolved issues nailed to my chest.

The first one shuffled up before I even touched the door handle.

He was a pale man in faded denim overalls , his skin the color of river clay. He didn’t walk so much as shiver into existence, like heat rising off hot asphalt. The thing that always got me—the thing that never stopped making the back of my neck prickle—was the casual, devastating clarity of his demise. He had a hole in his chest , just beneath the sternum, big enough to see daylight through, or maybe the flickering pink neon sign of the diner. A neat, impossible circle of nothing where a heart should have been.

His eyes, cloudy and filmed-over like old milk, latched onto mine through the glass. He leaned down, his breath a non-existent chill that I felt deep in my bones, his nose nearly pressed to the window.

“You finally came back, Caleb Foster.” His voice was a dry, scraping whisper, like someone dragging a shovel across gravel.

“Not for you,” I muttered, my voice barely a rustle of sound, hoping the dead man hadn’t brought any friends.

“You can hear me,” he said, his head cocking slightly. The dead always sounded so surprised by this simple fact, like I was the only person who’d ever signed up for their personal complaint line and then tried to cancel the subscription without notice.

“Not today, friend. Got my own demons to wrangle,” I said, finally pulling my hand from the steering wheel. I let out a slow breath. He was just a random. Not the one who brought me here. Not my ghost.

I didn’t wait for him to finish the plea. The dead, much like my mother used to, always wanted something. I pushed open the heavy, metal-framed door with a deliberate slam. The force of the movement, the rush of the outside air, or maybe just my refusal to acknowledge him, was enough. He blinked out like smoke, dissolving into the humid afternoon air.

Out of sight, out of mind. I wished, for the thousandth time, that it worked that well with family.

Inside, the diner was a time capsule I’d desperately hoped had been bulldozed. It was the same worn-out cracked vinyl booths —a specific, faded shade of rust-colored red—and the same greasy, wood-paneled walls that smelled like a lifetime of fried chicken and cheap coffee. It was the scent of my youth, and it sat heavy and hot in my nostrils, a pungent mix of nostalgia and regret.

A couple of local farmers , their faces the color and texture of cured leather, were hunched over plates of biscuits and gravy, their conversation a slow, low rumble about the rising cost of feed. The low hum of the ceiling fan blending with the hiss of the griddle and the clink of silverware was the soundtrack of Ashwood Hollow.

I immediately spotted Mrs. Dunlap , who must’ve been well past ninety by now. She was perched on her usual stool at the counter, stirring a coffee that was probably mostly cream, her movements slow and deliberate. She wore the same kind of floral-print dress she’d worn for forty years. She didn’t look up at first, but when I passed her, she squinted at me, her eyes narrow and assessing, like she was deciding if I was really Caleb Foster or just a particularly disappointing hallucination brought on by low blood sugar. Probably both.

I slid into the corner booth, the one I used to claim as my own territory—deepest in the back, where the light was dimmest, perfect for sketching in notebooks or hiding from the world. I pulled my worn, leather jacket off and draped it over the back, hoping the town’s ancient, interconnected gossip network wouldn’t start its engines quite yet. I wanted a moment to breathe.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look who finally decided to come home.”

The voice was rough, familiar, and laced with an eight-year accumulation of resentment. It came from the counter, right beside Mrs. Dunlap, who seemed to perk up instantly, sensing drama like a hound dog scenting a rabbit.

My little brother was standing there, a coffee mug dwarfed in his big hand. He was wearing his uniform: badge clipped neat to his belt, the khaki shirt pressed and starched so crisply it looked like he’d ironed it himself with military precision. He looked older, squarer, heavier around the shoulders, like he was carrying a load of bricks only he could see. He looked every bit the solid, reliable man I never was, every inch the son my father had always wanted. Still, the same kid lived under that starched, iron-clad exterior—the one who used to chase me barefoot through the pecan orchard behind the house, the one who once cried so hard he threw up when I left for college and never really came back.

Except now he was Detective Eli Foster , and he wore the title not just as a job, but as armor against the world, and against me.

I gave him my best grin, the lazy, reckless one that usually got me in or out of trouble depending entirely on the situation and how fast I was moving. “Miss me, baby brother ?” I asked, leaning back into the cracked vinyl.

His jaw tightened, a hard muscle jumping beneath his cheekbone. He didn’t return the smile. He didn’t even twitch. “Eight years, Caleb. Not a call. Not a word.”

“Phone works both ways, Eli,” I said, keeping my tone light, almost bored. It was an old argument, the easiest one to deflect.

“You left,” he countered, and in that single word was the entire, messy history of the Foster family. It wasn’t a question or an accusation; it was a fact, an indictment.

Can’t argue with facts. I leaned back further, folding my hands over the table like a polite, interested visitor, and tried not to notice the way every single other conversation in the diner had gone completely silent. Ashwood Hollow loved a scene, especially when the principal players were the Foster boys , who hadn’t shared a stage in nearly a decade.

Eli didn’t sit. He just stood over me, looming, staring down like I was dirt on his Sunday shoes—the one thing he couldn’t seem to wipe clean. “Why are you back?”

“Because the universe hates me,” I said, letting the grin fade into a sigh. “And apparently, so do you.”

“Don’t joke.” His voice was sharp, a whip-crack that drew the attention of the cooks behind the counter. “Not about this.”

“Who’s joking? I had a dream. Or maybe it was a nightmare. Either way, it brought me home. Is that a good enough answer for Detective Foster?”

I saw the flicker in his eyes—the old skepticism warring with the deep, buried knowledge of what I could do, what he’d seen me do. The fact that the dream wasn’t the full truth didn’t matter. The truth itself was complicated, a story about a girl—dead, blonde, maybe twenty—who’d stood at the foot of my cheap motel bed three nights ago in Tupelo, Mississippi. She’d been cold and beautiful, and her voice had been like broken glass in my ears, cutting through the thin wall of my sleep. Ashwood Hollow. Come back. They’ll kill her too. I hadn’t asked questions. I didn’t need to. I’d packed my bag, checked out, and pointed the truck north.

But Eli didn’t need all that messy, impossible truth. Not yet.

The old bell above the door jingled a low, mournful sound, and that’s when a different kind of trouble walked in.

She moved with the kind of focused, quiet ease that made people look twice without meaning to—a clean, confident stride, auburn hair tied back in a no-nonsense knot, and hazel eyes sharp enough to skin a deer alive. She was in plainclothes—dark jeans and a simple charcoal jacket—but the badge hanging subtly from her hip might as well have been a sword. She wasn’t from Ashwood Hollow. She had the look of a woman who was competent, professional, and slightly too educated for this town, a transplant Eli had clearly acquired since I’d left.

She stopped just inside the door, letting her eyes sweep the room with the practiced efficiency of a cop. They landed on me, assessing my scruff, my road-weary clothes, my general air of ne’er-do-well . Then they flicked to Eli, who was still standing stiff by the counter like he was holding his breath, waiting for the performance review. Something passed between them—unspoken, clipped, the kind of communication that comes from spending too many hours together in a patrol car.

Then she walked over, slow and deliberate, taking the long way, like she wanted to get the full measure of me before saying a word.

“You must be Caleb ,” she said finally, her voice low and dry, like old whiskey. No awe, no nerves—just cool observation, like she was noting the weather report.

I gave her the lazy smile again, the one I hadn’t even bothered to give my brother. “And you must be the infamous partner .”

“Infamous?” She arched a perfect, dark brow, but her lips quirked at the corner, like she was half a step from letting out a genuine laugh.

“That’s what folks call the people who willingly spend their days with my brother,” I explained, tilting my head toward Eli. “Takes guts. Or poor judgment.”

Eli groaned, a sound of deep, paternal weariness. “God, not this, Caleb. Don’t start with her.”

She ignored him, which was immediately a point in her favor. She slid into the booth across from me without asking, occupying the space with immediate, quiet authority. She folded her arms on the table, a solid barrier. Up close, I noticed a tiny, scattered cluster of freckles across her cheeks, and that her hazel eyes didn’t just look sharp—they looked like they carried weight, the kind of weight that comes from sorting out too many lies from too many ugly truths.

“Your brother said you wouldn’t come back,” she said.

“Your brother also said Santa Claus was fake when I was seven,” I shot back, the words easy and automatic. “He’s been wrong before.”